User blog:Iggylord/Fallout: A Study in Scarlet (Part 2: The Science of Deduction)
12:05 PM, Friday, the 9th of October, 2291 221 Baker Town, Baker Town, Westminster, The London Wasteland My carriage stopped outside 221, where Mr Holmes and I were meeting. He was already outside, smoking a cigarette. "Good day, Dr Watson." He said, shaking my hand. He noticed me looking in disgust at his cigarette, "Don't worry, I shan't be smoking inside the flat. Besides, I'm starting to cut back on the things." "I'm glad to here it, Mr Holmes." I replied. "Please, call me Sherlock." Holmes insisted, extinguishing his cigarette. "Of course." I said, "So, this is the place, then?" I gestured toward the wooden, black door of the building. In gold-painted metal, was the numer 221, emblazoned on the door. "Yes. Flat B to be specific." Sherlock said, knocking on the door, "The landlady, Mrs Hudson, is giving us a discount. She owes me a favor. A few years ago, her husband got himself on death row in Surrey. I helped out," "You stopped her husband's execution?" I asked. "No." Said Sherlock, "I ensured it." Before I could press Sherlock for more details, his door knocks were answered, and the large, black door opened. Behind it, was a small, aging lady, in a cardigan, with grayish-brownish hair. Presumably, she was Mrs Hudson. "Sherlock!" The woman said with glee, hugging him. Sherlock looked as though he wasn't quite enjoying th hug. "Here about the flat, I'm guessing?" "Yes. This is John Watson. He's going to want to have a peak too." As Sherlock introduced me, I shook Mrs Hudson's hand. As she led us up the stairs, she said to me, "Sherlock's already moved his things in. Seems sure that you'll take the flat. If you like, I can have someone collect your things?" "No, no," I said, "It's fine. All I'll need to move are a terminal, and a few bits and bobs." "Just as well, really," Mrs Hudson said, unlocking the door to flat B, "With the amount of furniture and books Sherlock's got, there's hardly room for anything else." She opened the door. The flat consisted of four rooms, not counting the upstairs bedroom: The entrance landing, the living area, a small kitchen, and what would be Sherlock's bedroom. Two armchairs, one red and one green, sat by the fire, which blazed happily, as though Mrs Hudson had lit it prior to our arrival. A wide array of glass vials and chemicals sat atop the kitchen table, presumably Sherlock's. "Will you be taking two bedrooms, or just the one?" Mrs Hudson asked. "Of course we'll need two bedrooms." I said, limping into the living room, "Why would we only take one?" "Oh, it's alright!" Mrs Hudson said, as though reassuring a confused child, "Mrs Turner's boys next door are married." "No, no." I said, "Sherlock and I, we aren't, well you know, together." It seemed my words fell on deaf ears. Mrs Hudson began walking out of the room, and shouted behind her, "I'll give you two until tonight to decide if you're taking the flat. You can inspect what's there until then." As she left, Sherlock gestured to the green armchair, and said, "Please, take a seat. Your leg must be killing you." "Thanks," I said, setting myself down in the chair, "I never really found out, by the way, what exactly do you do for a living?" "It's quite hard to explain." Sherlock said, "But I expect that tonight, I'll be able to show you. For now, there's an article in The Strand newspaper, I was wandering what your thoughts on it were," Sensing I wasn't going to get any information out of him, I picked up the paper he gestured to. The article was already highlighted in red marker pen, and it read as such: The Science of Deduction From a drop of water, a logician could easily infer whether it was from the Thames or a mere pond, without having seen or heard either in his life. He could, as I can, tell a soldier from his speech patterns, or a baker from his calluses All of life is one great chain, the nature of which, only known, when we are shown a link. Like any other art, the Science of Deduction and Analysis takes years to become even the slightest experienced, nor is mortal life too long for perfection of the skill. Before turning to the moral aspects, an inquirer must observe and solve the most elementary of problems. And eventually, one will be able to solve the most complex mysteries. For anything of a man, from the creases in his shirt, his cufflinks, the trigger of his gun, or even his right eyebrow, are his calling card, and one that the most experienced of deductionists must notice. "What bloody nonsense!" I announced, setting down the paper. "Do you think so?" Sherlock asked. He looked surprised by my reaction to the article. "Of course I do." I replied, "Of course, it's well written, I'll give the author that much. But even so, it's nonsense! 'His calling card". What bloody nonsense. As if the author is even skilled in such a field of study, if it can be called even that. I'd be willing to bet thousands that the man has never deduced a thing in his life!" Sherlock simply sighed, and said, "John, look at the author's name, please." At the bottom of the article, were the words, "written by Sherlock Holmes." "Oh." I said, "And.. are you? A skilled deductionist, I mean?" "You'll find out tonight." Sherlock said, with a slight smirk, as though I hadn't pointed out every flaw in something he'd spent at least an hour writing. We spent the rest of the day exchanging awkward small-talk. Sherlock was not an easy man to find things out about. His answers to my questions were usually short, one-worded answers. In fact, by 6:00 PM that night, all I was able to find out about him was that he had a brother, he enjoyed chemistry, and seemed to be a walking calender of past homicides. I joked that he should start a newspaper, called "Police News of The Past", which he did not find quite as funny as myself. Mrs Mudson entered the room, to check whether or not we'd be taking the flat. "Yeah, sure." I said, "If Sherlock is." Sherlock nodded. "Fantastic!" Said Mrs Hudson, "If we can get the caps settled by the end of the week, that would be excellent." She noticed the copy of The Strand I had been reading earlier, pointed out an article, titled, Serial Suicides! "I thought this would be right up your street. Four suicides, all linked." "Five." Said Sherlock peering through the window, onto the street below, "There's been a fifth victim." Almost immediately, a woman ran up the stairs, and burst into the flat. She was dressed in guard uniform, and looked graying. Not from age, but stress. "There's been another one." She said, panting. "Where this time, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked her. "Sussex Gardens." The woman said, "There's a carriage waiting for you at the town gate. We'll see you there." She shook Sherlock's hand, and left ran back out of the flat, straightening her helmet as she ran. As soon as she had left, a look of pure joy spread across Sherlock's face. "Oh, yes." He said, rubbing his hands with glee, "The game is on!" "Who was that, and why does she need your help solving a crime?" I asked. Sherlock said, "She was Captain Lestrade, of the Baker Town Guard, and I'll explain on the way." "On the way?" I asked, "You're taking me with you? To see a dead body?" "Yes." Sherlock said, throwing his coat over his shoulders, "You were a soldier. I presume you saw plenty of gruesome injuries, and horrific deaths." "Enough for a lifetime." I said. "How about some more?" He asked, with a slight smile. My answer was either the best decision I've ever made, or the worst: "God yes." Category:Blog posts Category:Stories